Eyes

Your eyes can hardly see
and, though that was never
your strongest sense,
now your head
barely turns to follow
my shapelessness,
its meanderings swimming
and swaying elusively
in the dead aquarium
that has become your world.

Eyes, veined like
red rivers on a map,
glued with exhaustion,
stare over my shoulder,
searching for some imagined
and invisible sun.

Stripped of vision,
of brilliance,
of understanding,
of hope,
of even
(almost)
life,
they begin to close
until all I see
in them is
love....